


Daimonas

by rainbowdracula



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Dark Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mentor/Protégé, Mythology - Freeform, Original Fiction, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-27 22:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18200117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowdracula/pseuds/rainbowdracula
Summary: In bright Hellenas, Kallias has lost everything.The distant Laitan Empire is marching its way through Hellenas’s independent cities, leaving a path of destruction in its wake. Young Kallias’s own village is no exception, his home and family burned to the ground and Kallias himself left for dead. Except that, rather than rotting under the hot sun, Kallias is rescued – by the terrifying and powerful Lord Anakletos, a being of such greatness none can say if he is a human sorcerer, a demon, or a god.Anakletos brings Kallias to his resplendent palace and offers him both hospitality and a chance to enact vengeance against those who wronged him. As Kallias takes on the task of learning the ancient arts, Anakletos is his guide through Hellenas’s magical world, both sacred and profane, all while Anakletos’s own motivations remain frustratingly obtuse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm VERY excited to be posting this long-form original work. I've wanted to work on original fiction for a while and decided that 2019 is the year I do it. I hope you all enjoy it and share it with your friends! I'm aiming for an upload every Friday.

The Sun pounded down on Kallias’s shoulders, bronze becoming peeling red. He panted, lips cracked and dry, face pressed into the hard dirt. The smoke and the blood were overwhelming; his village poured up into the blue sky in long black plumes. Kallias barely managed to turn away from the apathetic sky, looking towards the crumbled ashes of his family’s farm.

Kallias cried out, tears carving long paths down his soot-covered face. In the distance, he could see the broken bodies of his mother and father. With a hacking cough, he started crawling, fingers digging into the dirt until his nails bled – when he died here, he wanted to die beside his parents.

He hacked blood and phlegm into the dirt; the rough earth tore up the thin wool of his ruined chiton. Kallias knew that he was the last. Would someone find them here and grant them a proper pyre? Or would they be tossed into a great ditch with a few hasty words and left to rot together like they died together? Or, worse yet, would they receive no funerary rites at all, their bodies left to scavengers and their souls damned to wander?

Kallias could feel his body giving out, and he extended his trembling hands towards his parents—towards his mother’s soft red hair—towards his father’s crinkly eyes—towards their little quiet house and their little quiet lives—

A murder of crows cawed thrice and fell silent.

The air grew cool. The Sun dimmed. Kallias blinked and realized reality had been blurred but now was unblurred – in fact, it became so sharp it hurt. His chest rattled, breath sticky in his lungs, and he blinked slowly. Bare feet, untouched by soil and viscera, came into view; black cloth swished about their ankles, the hem finely embroidered with silver thread.

_Was this Death?_ Kallias asked himself.

The god – because who else would it be? – knelt down. Kallias’s vision blurred and he saw a pale face and long, silvery hair, eyes bright. Kallias twitched, reaching out, hoping the cold god could provide some soft comforts.

“Such horrifying things,” the god murmured like golden honey. “Such tenacious things.”

“My Lord,” Kallias rattled. The god pushed Kallias’s pale red curls from his face.

“Not quite,” he replied. Kallias could not parse this strange answer, brain dulling and darkening.

The god lifted Kallias up, cradling him close. Kallias’s cheek pressed against his chest and – delirious – he realized the god’s chiton was made of silk. What strange things stick with you.

“Let’s leave this place,” the god murmured. “There is nothing here for you anymore.”

“My family,” Kallias slurred, eyelids drooping. “Funeral rites…”

“Worry not,” the god said. “Worry no more.”

Pained and exhausted, blackness overtook Kallias.

 

-

 

The bed was soft, and Kallias was sinking into it. It was an immediate revelation upon awakening.

His bed at the farm was straw-stuffed, with a similarly plain blanket and pillow – simple and rough, but he was used to it and rarely lingered in bed regardless. In contrast, _this_ bed must’ve been stuffed with down, and same went with the pillows – a mountain of them, more than Kallias thought possible. He was covered by a finely woven blanket, soft against his bare skin.

His skin! He had been washed and his wounds dressed, leaving his skin like polished bronze and his hair like shining brass. Kallias felt deeply unnerved by his change of fortunes – he was just a simple farmer, and thus his soul would’ve been sent off to the endless grey meadows of asphodel rather than to commune with the gods.

Kallias opened his eyes slowly.

The room was resplendent, beyond Kallias’s wildest dreams of the luxuries of Eastern emperors and immortal deities. It was a circular room with a domed ceiling, painted with images of gods and spirits in leisurely repose. Covering the walls were mosaics of heroes and their great feats, each tile small so the scenes could be rendered in intricate detail. The mosaics were split apart by open arches, white linen curtains dancing in the breeze. The scent of the sea lingered.

Kallias sat up and pillows spilt on to the floor and more mosaics of animals, both ones familiar and ones strange. The room had little furniture – a low table beside the bed with a lamp, and shelves for clothes across the way. The furniture was elaborately carved and gilded, becoming art themselves. Kallias tossed the blanket aside, and he became aware of his nudity.

It wasn’t too surprising. His chiton must’ve been ruined – the chiton made from the fabric woven by his mother and aunts with deftness and care. Kallias squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands – but the Sun had dried him out, and no tears fell. He was in this strange place, lacking even the most familiar of things.

Kallias rubbed at his eyes and sat up fully, shivering as the sea mist wrapped around him. He crossed the room to the shelves and examined them. A multitude of chitons awaited him; Kallias touched them and found them to be soft and fine. They were richly dyed and embroidered with elaborate, geometric designs. In the drawer below the shelves were a sparkling collection of brooches and pins casted into the shapes of gods and animals.

Kallias left the shelves and went back to the bed, wrapping himself up in the blanket and laying down. He tried to sort through the haze of his thoughts and figure out his situation – it seemed impossible, this world land he landed in. Unimaginable wealth surrounded him and darkness lurked in his heart, and he could not see any way out of either. He pressed his face into the pillows, body sore and aching.

The door opened, and Kallias lifted his head. All at once, the reason for the room’s finery became clear.

His rescuer was towering and broad, his hair long and the color of quicksilver. He possessed _horns,_ the left snapped in half while the right made a full, graceful curve, capped with gold. His eyes lacked irises, pupils, or whites – instead they were all one color, bright and unyielding starlight, and difficult to look directly at. He was handsome, a statue deftly carved by a patient master and then breathed to life by an indulgent god. Words caught in Kallias’s throat.

“Good, you’re awake,” his rescuer said. “We were afraid you wouldn’t for a while there.”

Kallias swallowed, trying to lubricate his dry throat. “…Who are you? Where am I?”

A rude reply to any host, but especially a god!

His rescuer inclined his head with a friendly, closed-mouth smile, seemingly having expected this reaction. “I am Anakletos, Lord of the Northern Mountains, and this is my villa. I brought you here to tend to your wounds and offer you hospitality.”

Kallias’s blood ran cold.

Anakletos of the Northern Mountains was a story whispered to misbehaving children. There was debate over if he was a spirit or a human sorcerer who gained dark, arcane knowledge – but all spoke of his mastery of eldritch magics, arts deep and forbidden. They said that there were rituals that could call him to you, and he would cut a deal, but such a deal would inevitably end poorly for you.

Kallias’s first instinct was raw fear, terrified of what Anakletos would expect in exchange for rescuing him – but then Kallias calmed himself. Panicking would do nothing, and besides, not even the dread Anakletos would break the sacred bonds of hospitality. Right?

“My village,” Kallias began, and coughed dryly. Anakletos waited for him to stop. “Am I the only one?”

Anakletos’s face grew sad. “Yes.”

Kallias clutched at his chest. “The funeral rites…I have to—”

He started coughing in earnest, great hacking things that caused his lungs to ache and body to curl in on itself. Anakletos walked across the mosaic floor and sat beside Kallias on the bed, resting one broad hand on Kallias’s back. He moved it in circles, and Kallias swore he felt it heating up, spreading through him and relaxing his spasming muscles. The coughing passed, and Kallias unfurled himself, eyes teary.

“I’ve ensured their safe passage,” Anakletos promised. “May I ask your name, and what happened to your village?”

Kallias took a deep breath. “My name is Kallias. My village…we were beset by Laitan soldiers. Those invaders took _everything—_ ”

His breathing grew choked again, and he stopped himself before his emotions overflowed once more. Anakletos’s expression was unreadable.

“Such grim days,” Anakletos murmured, and then louder, “Rest here, my friend. My hospitality is inexhaustible.”

Kallias stared at his rescuer, wondering if he was truly safe here, in the palace of such an infamous being – but where would he go? The ashes of a house among ruined fields and broken places? There were probably worse places to be stuck.

“Thank you,” Kallias said. Anakletos stood and smiled once more.

“Please feel free to wear any of the clothes offered to you,” Anakletos assured. “I will send in a servant with food and drink, to help you gather your strength. When you’re more well-rested, I will gladly show you around my home.”

Anakletos left, the blue door shutting firmly behind him. Kallias got out of bed and went back to the shelves, sorting through the chitons – their richness made him uncomfortable, and he chose a navy one with minimal embroidery. The brooches and pins were even more elaborate, and he awkwardly picked crow and lion ones. He wrapped the chiton loosely around his torso, letting it drop about his knees. He pinned either side together at his shoulders with the brooches, which left one side open. He cinched a leather belt around his waist, closing up the chiton fully.

At loss for what to do next, he sat back on the bed and stared at the murals and mosaics. He wondered if Anakletos used his power to create them, or if such things were below him. Kallias exhaled and laid down, looking up the images of reclining gods and nymphs – perhaps their faces were meant to look relaxed and joyful, but in the moment they just seemed mocking.

There was a knock at the door, and it opened slowly, a soft female face poking through.

“Ah, good morning, Master Kallias,” she said, stepping fully into the room while balancing a tray. “Lord Anakletos sent me to give you breakfast…”

“Thank you,” Kallias said, a bit awkward. His family was too poor for servants or slaves – once, the widower Kratos sent his daughter to them so she could learn proper household keeping from his mother, but that was about it. The servant girl was young with dark hair and was dressed in a simple white chiton. She set the tray on the low table beside the bed.

“Dinner will be at sunset,” the servant said. “If you wish it, someone will draw a bath for you before then, Master Kallias.”

“That would be nice,” Kallias told her. The servant girl gave him a bright smile and a short bow.

“Someone will come before dinner,” she assured. “I hope you enjoy your meal, Master Kallias.”

She left, and Kallias looked at the food laid out on the silver tray. It was surprisingly simple – wheat pancakes covered by feta and honey, with figs and a tea made of healing herbs on the side. If not for the fine plates and platter it was served on, Kallias could mistake it for food he ate at home before heading out into the fields.

Tears still did not come.


	2. Chapter 2

Kallias left the tray on the low table after he finished eating and, hesitantly, approached the curtains. He peered past them with a cautious eye, then parted them all the way.

Beyond his room was a verdant garden, dancing in the breeze. Past the garden and a stone fence was a sheer drop-off into the crashing waves of the ocean, endless blue that blended sea and sky until they were indistinguishable. The air was pleasant, not cool but not hot either. He stepped out on to the terracotta stone of the terrace.

At the edge of the terrace he turned and looked back at the palace. His room was a round tower attached to the palace, and the villa was so large he couldn’t see its ends from where he stood. It was made of white marble and was at least three stories tall, capped with a red roof, tiles gleaming like rubies. Like most houses Kallias had seen, from peasant to merchant, it saved its greatest adornments for the inside.

Kallias turned and kept walking further into the garden, wandering down the stone pathways to the fence. He peered down – the cliff face dropped down to a small sandy beach, and then there was nothing but the pounding sea, sending sprays of salt up against his face. His village was landlocked, and thus he had only seen the ocean once, its majesty overwhelming to him. Beautiful, yet isolated.

Exploring the garden occupied his mind for a time, the smell of fertile soil comforting and familiar. It wasn’t a very large garden, so Kallias felt compelled to examine it in depth – the plants were ornamental rather than practical food or medicine. Did many people live in Anakletos’s palace? It wouldn’t be so big if it was just him, right?

“Young master?”

Kallias looked up from his analysis of a cypress branch. A boy – not too much younger than himself – stood in the doorway, dressed in the same simple way the servant girl had been. Kallias straightened up and dusted off his legs.

“Are you here to show me to the baths?” Kallias asked. The boy nodded/

“Yes,” he said. “My name’s Thales. Please follow me, Master Kallias.”

“You don’t have to call me _Master,”_ Kallias said, but Thales didn’t seem to hear him.

The palace beyond Kallias’s room was as magnificent and ornate as expected – it seemed every corner had another mosaic, painting, or statue. Gold and silver were inlaid in the walls in labyrinth patterns. Kallias caught glimpses of servants in richly appointed rooms but Thales’s brisk pace did not let him linger. Thales opened up a pair of double doors and directed Kallias into the baths.

The centerpiece of the room was the basin carved into the floor, filled with steaming, fragrant water. The mosaics in here depicted coy nymphs and youths playing in the water, suggestive enough to have Kallias flushing. Thales reached to undo Kallias’s chiton, causing Kallias to jump.

“I can undress myself,” Kallias exclaimed. Thales was unimpressed.

“Young master, you’re injured,” Thales replied blandly. “It is imperative I help you or else you might injure yourself further.”

Before Kallias could conceive of a reply, Thales undid all his brooches and pins, letting Kallias’s chiton drop to the floor. Kallias blushed – he was used to bathing around others, of course, but they were usually bare as well. Being naked while the other was clothed was a completely different experience. Thales hummed as he undid Kallias’s bandages and urged him into the hot water.

Admittedly the hot water was amazing as it soaked into his aching muscles, but Thales’s presence put him on edge. Thales, on his part, was completely unperturbed – he grabbed a boar-bristle brush with a long wooden handle and started to scrub. He was none-too-gentle with it, and such roughness transformed the bath into a medical task. Dead skin stripped off, Kallias was pink with exfoliated.

It was a quick bath. After washing him down with soap and rinsing him clean, Thales helped Kallias up and out of the bath. Kallias’s embarrassment returned when Thales dried him and then dipped his hands into a vase of olive oil.

“You really don’t—” Kallias began, cut off when Thales began to rub the oil into his skin.

“Of course I have to, Master Kallias,” Thales said in that same bored tone. “Otherwise you’ll be dried out.”

Yes, he would, but he wouldn’t be so mortified either. Quick as a snake, Thales struck and started rubbing into the skin. Kallias stuttered, unable to believe that aristocrats had this done every time they took a bath. Did the shame eventually vanish, or were they just trained to hide it?

Thales was oiling Kallias’s feet when the door was opened by the servant girl that brought Kallias breakfast. Kallias’s mortification increased when he realized he never even asked for her name before she saw him nude. In her hands was a bundle of deep purple cloth. Thales stood and Kallias shuffled closer to himself, pondering how deeply he could blush as the servant girl approached to dress him – do aristocrats not even dress themselves? How do they get anything done? How do the _servants_ get anything done if they’re stuck doing this all the time?

“I can—” Kallias protested, but the servant girl ignored him like Thales ignored him, draping the chiton around him. It was ankle-length and stitched with a map of the cosmos, detailed with jewels. The servant girl dragged a comb through his hair, but fortunately that was the extent of that. Kallias couldn’t handle anything more.

“Lord Anakletos is quite eager to see how you are,” the servant girl said conversationally. Oddly, her casual tone relaxed Kallias. “He hasn’t had a proper guest in quite a while.”

“Korinna,” Thales hissed, before snapping back to his neutral face. “Our Lord entertains many interesting and noble guests. Young Master Kallias is just the first in a few months now since the passes are dangerous.”

The servant girl – Korinna – raised a skeptical eyebrow but said nothing more.

“The dining room is this way, Master Kallias,” Thales said, and Kallias followed him out.

The dining room was vast and beautiful. The domed ceiling was made of glass, giving a clear view of the sunset, painting it in vivid blues, red, and pinks. The art here depicted feasting, gluttony, and the consequences thereof – Kallias recognized some of the funnier stories.

Anakletos sat, crossed-legged, on a cushion rather than sitting on a chair or lounging on a couch. A bevy of food was laid out in front of him on a rug, elegantly presented on fine platters. Neatly dressed servants lit the wall scones. Anakletos smiled when Kallias entered; Kallias meekly returned it as he knelt on the cushion.

“Good evening,” Anakletos said. “I know this is probably an unusual way to eat for you, but I found on my travels, but I prefer it compared to other ways of dining.”

“It’s fine,” Kallias assured. “Thank you for your generosity.”

Servants poured them wine.

“It’s far from troublesome for me, my friend,” Anakletos assured. “I enjoy having guests and hearing their tales.”

“I don’t have many tales,” Kallias said, uncertain. Anakletos titled his head, eyes calculating, considering.

“You’d be surprised,” Anakletos said. “Everyone is much more interesting than they think they are.”

Kallias didn’t know how to reply to that, so he focused on the food. He wasn’t particularly hungry, stomach churning with nervous energy, but he did his best to choke something down lest he looked rude. Anakletos ate patiently, not forcing the conversation like Kallias feared. The more time he spent around Anakletos, the more anxious he grew – not because of anything Anakletos actually did, but due to his unnerving presence. Kallias snuck glances up at him from beneath his eyelashes, barely lasting a half-second.

“Your home is beautiful,” Kallias said because he had to say _something._ The silence was suffocating, pressing down on his chest and driving his mind to places he’d rather not be.

“I believe strongly in aesthetic cultivation,” Anakletos explained with a proud smile. “My work requires a certain state of mind and thus I have molded my villa to express that.”

“Ah. That…makes sense. I like my room.”

Kallias felt silly, but Anakletos looked like a preening bird. _If I had a home like this,_ Kallias thought, _I would take pride in it too._

“When dinner is finished, I will show you my garden,” Anakletos promised. “It’s my favorite part of the house.”

Kallias smiled, a bit pained. “Of course, that sounds wonderful.”

What would his life be in the coming weeks, lacking direction and company besides a few servants and this strange man before him? Kallias folded his hands in his lap, that crushing silence settling back on his chest.

Dinner was finished in the same quiet way it began, and the servants took away the plates as Anakletos rose. He offered his hand to help Kallias up and did not take it away as he led him to the gardens. Kallias did not know what to think about that, so he didn’t say anything at all.

Even in this world, there were familiar things – the house was centered around a central courtyard and garden, far grander than any Kallias had seen before. The plants, too, were strange and alien. The stone paths were lit by bizarre lights that floated among the greenery, flickering like candles yet not flame. Kallias swallowed, free hand twisting in his chiton.

Anakletos was saying something but Kallias could not hear him, the crushing weight on his chest growing heavier and heavier. The sky above was black and sparkled with stars, but the round Moon only brought burning thoughts. Kallias gasped, out of breath, and he clutched at his chest.

“Kallias!”

The tears came then, great hiccupping sobs that shook him to the bone. Kallias thought it was the raw grief bubbling out – yet there was something else to an undercurrent gaining more and more footing. Anakletos knelt down beside him, hand between his shoulder blades. “Kallias, what are you thinking?”

Was he thinking, or was he just reacting to the pain? Oh, he _was_ thinking something, deep and dark in the recess of his mind—

“I hate them,” Kallias choked out.

“Who?”

“The men. The men who did this to us. I hate them.”

“That’s understandable, Kallias. They are worthy of hate.”

“I want them to suffer,” Kallias admitted, and the truth lifted the block from his chest. “I want them to suffer like I have suffered.”

Anakletos spoke softly. “There are ways to do that, but it is not a path easily turned around on.”

Kallias looked up at Anakletos with wide, glossy eyes.

“What else do I have?” Kallias asked. Anakletos had no answer for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, please make sure to go and tell people about it! Original fiction is harder to market than fanfiction so I would really appreciate the word-of-mouth~!

**Author's Note:**

> Please follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/rainbow_dracula) and [tumblr!](https://rainbowdracula.tumblr.com/)


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